


Flowers In The Night

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Patron Minette Week 2013 (1-7 Dec) [10]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Body Worship, Bruises, M/M, Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some poeticism on Montparnasse’s part about Claquesous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers In The Night

Montparnasse had an appreciation for things that were beautiful. Montparnasse appreciated his own face, kept a looking glass in his rooms and was careful and particular about his appearance, ensuring that his handsome face was clean, and ensuring his clothes looked as best as they could. They were hard-earned garments, after all, in their silks and their cloths and their darling shades or purple or of red when he chose to accentuate his black.

Montparnasse loved flowers, loved their colours and the feel of their petals under his slender fingers, but even more so he loved to see a different blossom - the blossom of blood on freshly cut skin, the way it beaded and then flowed freely from the wound, the way it congealed and stuck to the skin, the way it went from red to black.

Montparnasse liked blood, but even more, he liked bruises. He liked to see bruises again and again over the course of days, seem them mature and change colour, see them alter. On his skin, a marble expanse with ne’er a freckle or a mole to mar it, bruises were obvious and plain, and he  _loved_ this fact.

He had bruises now.

They were mostly on his thighs, obvious, large handprints on the skin, in a purpling red, and there were more around his throat and layered across his buttocks, a beautiful mix of scarlet, vermillion, rose and violet - how charming it was, how  _affecting_ , to see bruises form in their dizzyingly pretty fashion. They ached,  _ached_ , and that was charming too, for it was a reminder, a comfortable one.

Montparnasse adjusted his position, sprawling out in the chair he had taken for himself, and watched Claquesous.

Of all beautiful things, whether they be clothes or bruises or blood or flowers or rivers or sunlight or anything else, none of it could compare to Claquesous when he was like this.

The other man lay across Montparnasse’s bed, comfortable on the clean, crisp white sheets and the duvet beneath him, comfortable lying back on thick, decorated pillows Montparnasse was absolutely certain he was not used to. He  _lazed_ , like some black cat enjoying sunlight on his fur, and, well. With all Claquesous’ cunning, perhaps that wasn’t such a bad comparison.

There were two candles lit, one on the table next to Montparnasse, and another on the little bedside table next to Claquesous. Montparnasse’s furniture was of quality but it was mismatched, with odd patternings and different types of wood and slightly mismatched types of varnish, and it upset him, but there was nothing he could do for it. 

Montparnasse reached for the table for a metal box and removed a cigarette, bringing it to his lips and lighting it at the tip before taking a slow drag, inhaling, inhaling, before blowing out the smoke in two rings; through all of this, he watched Claquesous.

Claquesous was a beauty.

The mask at his face was made of a varnished mahogany, but in this light it seemed more like ebony, black and shining in the candlelight. It was smooth wood and beautifully made, curving easily around Claquesous’ nose and fitting perfectly the curve of his eyes and his forehead and his temples. Tied neatly at the back with a black ribbon, it was tight and immovable on Claquesous’ face, an obvious contrast to skin that was not as dark as the mask was still dark, and yet, by now, to see him without the wood would have been an oddity above all things.

Montparnasse regarded the lower half of his head, the bit that he  _could_  see. Thick, plump lips that were a little chapped from cold and lack of drink and lack of care for them even though they were red, and yet, what lips could feel better traversing Montparnasse’s skin and tracing along the lines of his collarbones and his hips and his thighs? None, Montparnasse was certain.

Dark stubble covered the lines of Claquesous’ face, tracing his upper lip and then the sides of his face, moving downwards to cover his neck in the brown-black accentuation. Montparnasse usually felt that beard or stubble or anything at all was uncomely, but Claquesous’ somehow suited his strong jaw and neck, and Montparnasse had fallen in love long ago with the sensation of bristled hairs dragging across his skin, making him mewl, making him beg.

Claquesous’ hair was thick and curled, kept mostly short and often hidden beneath a hat - this, Montparnasse, was a perfect tragedy, for Claquesous’ hair was charming, and he liked nothing more than to run his fingers through the thick locks of it, or tease over the tips with his fingers as Claquesous pretended he didn’t enjoy the sensation. 

"Are you going to come back to bed?" Claquesous asked in a languid tone, and Montparnasse took another inhalation of smoke, blowing it out again. The grey in the air was obvious where it curled in the candlelight, and it was actually rather pretty, in an abstract sort of way.

"Soon." Montparnasse said, and Claquesous laughed, the sound rasping, low and dark, the thing young girls feared to hear in the darkness of alleyways, and the thing young men were terrified to hear at any time at all. "Shan’t have you stealing my cigarettes, after all."

He looked at Claquesous again, and now his eyes travelled lower, tracing over the obvious definition to his form, clear muscles that Montparnasse had never seen on a man who was not a galley slave in his time (Claquesous had never been a galley slave, Montparnasse was certain from the way he spoke and held himself), and he was simply a  _large_  man - tall, intimidating, and  _divine_.

His skin was shiny with sweat that lingered from their enrapture not thirty minutes before, and although his heavy breathing had slowed immensely (Montparnasse liked to watch that), the movement of his body was still a fine thing.

Dark skin was illuminated by the flicker and play of the candlelight, and my, what a marvellous thing it was to witness. Montparnasse loved the light that fire gave, loved its pretty movement and how it altered the reflections on sweat and moisture, and on Claquesous’ skin there was ink to play upon to - tattoos marked his shoulders and his upper arms, and to see candlelight toy with this pretty decoration was charming.

"Come back to bed." Claquesous said, and Montparnasse looked up, his pretty lips parting as he regarded the other man for his sharp rasp of noise. That had not been a request, or an amused tease: that had been an order. Montparnasse stubbed out the cigarette in a metal tray and set it aside, crawling forwards and back onto the bed.

His muscles ached, the bruises still new, but Claquesous’ grin was predatory in a fashion that Montparnasse  _adored_ , and now Montparnasse laid himself out on the bed with his limbs spread, displaying himself like an offering.

His meaning was plain:  _Do with me as you wish_.

Claquesous’ smirk was intoxicating, and Montparnasse could not help a slow roll of his hips into the air, as much for the prettiness of the movement as it was in vain hope for some stimulation on his slowly recovering cock. “You are very pretty.” Claquesous said, and Montparnasse preened for the attention, his smile most certainly pleased.

"And you are a handsome man." Montparnasse returned lazily, and he spread his thighs wide. "Come. Take me." Claquesous’ laugh sounded again, and Montparnasse found himself  _liking_  it, despite the incredible harshness of the sound on the ear. And then Claquesous was pressing forwards where Montparnasse was still wet and open, and a punched noise was coaxed from him as Claquesous pressed himself in ‘til the very root in one smooth movement.

"How’s that?" He asked, and Montparnasse slapped his thigh. Claquesous’ smirk became a snarl, and he rapidly grasped Montparnasse’s wrists and held them tightly above his head, hips thrusting forwards with sharp, fast snaps of his strong,  _strong_  body, and Montparnasse was left whining, whimpering, powerless.

There was nothing better than being whining, whimpering and powerless when one trusted no true harm would come of it - Montparnasse was a lucky, lucky man.


End file.
